DISPATCHES

Ziel

	click for dispatch photos

One of the camel jockeys has just handed me a short piece of hand-woven hemp tied to the nose ring of the lead camel in his string of eight beasts. He speaks, but, as I don't speak his language, there is no effective communication. He gestures (more successfully); and with his hand commands me to lead his string of loaded dromedaries up the riverbed 6 kilometers to camp.

"Hey! I thought we were paying you to carry all our loads on these camels up to K2 base camp," I yelled. Evidently not. Just now, two not-so-happy camels in the following string have just had a temper tantrum, jettisoned their loads which are now rolling down the hill to the river, and run up the hill thus distancing themselves from what they obviously don't enjoy carrying.

So why a prayer as my "camelier" abandons his charges to my care? Whoever named these things "ships of the desert" never visited the north side of K2. The closest this nautical metaphor referencing sailing ships of another century is the hemp rope in my hand.

The mental image that just ran through my mind was the first and only live rodeo I ever saw. The Brahman bulls there could take a lesson from the beasts now belayed in hand. Seems to me any self-respecting Brahman bull (whose only job is to throw an unbelayed 70 kilograms cowboy from its back in under two minutes) could learn a lesson or two from these "critters." These 4-legged dynamos kick like they've seen too many Bruce Lee movies, spit like they have a whole can of chaw between teeth and gum, scream like banshees, and can launch 100 kilograms of tied down luggage over one meter in the air in a single bound.

I look up the hemp belay line to its end, firmly lashed to a pair of nostrils two feet above me, and ponder. Six inches from the hemp is a large black eye staring back at me. I know it is connected to a brain the size of the "white-knuckled fist" that is clutching its tether. What is it thinking? A penny for your thoughts Mr. Camel, sir. Should I pet you and make friends?

Spit! Guess not. Are you angry because your load is too big? Are you angry because your tail is short-roped to your camel friend's nose behind you? Are you angry that you're gelded?

Please understand I'm not responsible for any of your problems here. Please remember you have it good; you're in the front of this line and your nose is not tied off to another camel's tail. The dark eye continues to stare. Maybe the best strategy is just to walk and lead the hemp line down the trail.

Splat! My brand new red Mountain Smith pack has just been spit upon. Is this a sign of affection or do camels feel the same way about the color red that my rodeo bulls do? Keep walking slowly and make no sudden moves until it charges. That's what the matadors do.

When in times of stress, I think of what my guru-in-life would advise. She is my 13-year-old daughter Lauren, socialite of South Pasdena Middle School, sage for countless adolescent youth, and saint to all the homeless animals in town. 'Gee Mom, look at all these neat camels I found. They don't have any house to live in. Can I keep 'em? I'll feed 'em and clean up after 'em...'

In my brain my wife Tomi screams, 'I can't take care of another #$%^&**(%#.....'

The camelier gestures again and takes the tether from my hand. I'm looking forward to another three days of camel racing to K2 Base Camp. Hail Mary, Mother of God...

— Fred Ziel, MountainZone.com Correspondent

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